


If you need me to need you to fuck

by OrpheusCrowned



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Begging, Body Worship, I mean, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self Confidence Issues, enjolras' tongue is involved, please dont ask me what your plots are for, shameless smut oneshot, they're all gonna die anyway, why bother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4970638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrpheusCrowned/pseuds/OrpheusCrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last night before they die, and they don't know how exactly it happened - but they're alone inside the Musain and they're fucking like their lives depend on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you need me to need you to fuck

**Author's Note:**

> there's no plot whatsoever, really - i'll probably reuse it for something else. Thank you so much to tumblr user ohsarahno who beta-read this!

“Please, please, please…” The sounds come rushed out of his mouth, when Enjolras’ tongue traces his hip bone. It’s not words, it’s breaths, prayers too rushed to be formed into letters and syllables and words. The very limit of linguistics – words cannot say the haste, nor can they say the want, the _need_.

Please is an expedient. If R says please, maybe Enjolras will understand, will see how much he has to touch him and fuck him and stop testing, as though doubting – maybe he will understand that he has to, because if he doesn’t it will be too late, because if he doesn’t, he won’t ever, because they’ll both be dead in the morning.

“ _Please_ , Enjolras—” The boy above him smiles gently, rises to give him a kiss, soft and severe.

“Be patient.”

He feels it, though, how his voice is low and his fingertips are trembling on his skin and his eyes burn when they meet his own. It sends a shiver down R’s spine, and his back arches, slowly; more than the kisses, more than the tongue and the fingertips, it’s the want in Enjolras’ eyes that makes him ache, reaching for the blond curls to grasp. The long, graceful limbs on his own look like marble on stupid concrete.

And yet, Enjolras kisses every mark and every scar and every imperfection Grantaire sees each morning in his mirror and tried to erase so many times, with his nails, only to make them even more visible. On his legs, on his thighs, on his belly. These hands seize him like they want him, like they need him, like they simply cannot wait to hold him again, more, better—and it feels like a fucking joke. Maybe Enjolras is going to get up and laugh at him and go away, and right now his tongue, Jesus Christ, his tongue, and all Grantaire can do is _beg_.


End file.
